Daisy harvest
by SuperiorDimwit
Summary: There is a way and time of harvest for everything that grows. Daisies? You rarely harvest daisies. But they do grow well in grave soil.


**A/N:** No characters I normally write for, but a brief talk with _Stormborn Soul_ put the idea in my head. Critique is very much appreciated: I felt a different style from usual would work better, but I'm not sure I did so well.

**This story will not be continued, **but if you find the idea intriguing and would like to see it further developed then **just let me know if you want to adopt it.** =)

As you probably know, these characters don't belong to me.

* * *

Garden hands know garden things: the earth and roots have told them. They know what lullabies to pour on seedling feet to make them grow, when to save the plums and peaches from the tree top fall, and when to cover fragile roots from frost. The book of life is in those garden hands, inscribed with earthen ink in cracked and crinkled runes that speak its secrets. How to care for every single plant. How to plant it, when and where; how to fertilize it, how to water it. How to harvest it.

_Elder flower_

Cut their wiry little necks as they strive for the sun, that's best, when their fluids rise to drink the light. There's an acid bath waiting for their tiny, pale faces.

_Menthe_

Take its webbed hands in yours, its little leaves so tender, and crush them gently when they're green and lush. Let them dry, grind their bones to dust and breathe it in.

_Blackberries_

Pluck them on a full moon's night, when their flesh is at its richest, at its sweetest. They taste so good then.

She always loved blackberries – there were some brambles in her garden. Her garden… She thinks it was hers, but memory is… memory is…

Like a wilted flower. Petals drying up, stiff and crumbling. She is a flower in a vase, her memory a book with pages that can no longer bear the strain of being turned.

Some days she thinks there may have been earth between her toes and raindrops in her hair. Those are good days. She likes them.

Some days her prince comes to visit. He is hers alone, and she is his, and that is how it should be. She likes those days, too. He brings her nectar to drink, sweet and nourishing, like sunshine and rain and soil to soothe her throat. She drinks, and he is pleased; he says that she has grown so beautiful. He says she will be Queen one day, and she smiles. He's so funny. Queen. Queen of Earth. His Queen. Will she, really...? He nods and says that yes, she will be Queen, his daisy Queen, and they will be together forever. Like those fairy tales she speaks of, when she can remember.

Shiemi likes fairy tales. There are princes and princesses, and they live happily ever after. It sounds nice.

Shiemi is his princess in the tower room, and he is her prince in tattered long-coat armor. And that is how it should be.

* * *

She sleeps a lot. It's a heavy sleep, the dreamless kind that lingers into waking and never really leaves, never really gives her rest. Sometimes she wakes not knowing how many days have passed. He says it's fine, she needs both rest and nourishment to grow strong. He combs his fingers through her hair – he's so kind, her prince – and says that she will make a beautiful Queen. She smiles and says she thinks she must be growing a lot. Her feet have the bounce of spring creeks in them, if only she could bring her tired mind to lift them from the bed. Her hands are eager, glowing, waiting; if her brain wasn't so hazy she'd use them, but really, she's too tired all the time. He smiles at her, telling her softly that soon her feet will be running and her hands be at work. It's so nice, to have someone who cares for you.

Shiemi wants a happily ever after for them.

* * *

Next time he comes, he brings no nectar cup. It's time, he says, and somewhere deep within her heart bursts like a flower bud. She is ready now, ready to become the Queen of Earth. Shiemi's smile is drawn in dreams, she can barely lift the curtains of her eyes but she's so happy and so full of _energy_. She's ready, yes, she feels it. Her prince leans over her – she can smell him on her face. His lips touch hers, and she is his forever.

* * *

Yes. This vessel is good – strong – she thinks as she rises from the bed. She stretches, all the way up on the balls of her feet, testing the home grown tendons and muscles. Yes, this one is a good fit. There is a heap of ash on the floor beside her, but she doesn't spare it a glance. The Demon Queen of Earth has more important things to do.


End file.
